Win
I tucked a crisp white linen shirt into a gray skirt, both mysteriously laid out for me when I returned from my bath. Staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror, I barely recognize myself. The only thing familiar is my long braid; the rest makes me look like I'm dressed for a concept photoshoot. If Sophie saw me, she'd laugh for an entire year. I just wish I had my phone to take a picture.
A knock at my bedroom door pulls me from my thoughts.
"Come in!" I call, and the door swings open.
Sophia steps inside, wearing the same uniform. Her jet-black hair cascades down her back, making her look even more polished than she did last night. "We'll be late if we don't leave soon. And I'm never late."
"I'm usually late," I reply in a lighthearted tone. "Maybe you'll be a good influence on me."
Her frown deepens.
"Do you know where these clothes came from?" I ask, gesturing to the black-laced boots at my feet. "When I got back from the bathroom, they were sitting at the end of my bed."
"The stylist," she says flatly.
"The stylist?" I blink. "You're kidding."
Sophia straightens even more—something I didn't think was possible with her already flawless posture. "Not in the least."
God. She's stiffer than my ninety-year-old physics teacher.
"Well, any idea what happened to my clothes?" I press. "And my things from"—I catch myself before breaking rule number one—"before I got here? My luggage is missing."
"Personal belongings are forbidden on campus. President Missy keeps them locked away."
"Even my toiletries and my—"
"Everything."
I sigh.
"Okay, but why all the secrecy?" I ask, lowering my voice.
Sophia gives me a sharp look. "Why would you ask me that?"
I wasn't expecting her to spill the academy's secrets, especially after Missy's warnings, but her immediate defensiveness catches my attention. Now I really want to know. Smiling the disarming smile that's always worked for me, I say, "I was just hoping you could explain it."
"Don't be absurd." With a lift of her chin, she turns away in one fluid motion. I wouldn't be surprised if she's practiced that dramatic exit, just waiting for someone to frustrate her enough to use it.
I trail after her into the lounge area, where she opens a tall closet, pulls out two gray blazers, and hands me one.
Running my fingers over the thick wool, I find a pair of gloves tucked into the pockets. Embroidered on the left side of the blazer, just above heart level, is the same crest I saw in Missy's office, stitched in dark blue and gold thread.
"S.I.S.," I read aloud. "What does that stand for?"
"Soft Is Strong—Dream Academy's motto," Sophia recites with a sigh, as if resigning herself to a tedious obligation. "Dark blue symbolizes growth as an artist. Gold represents excellence. The wings stand for ambition and perseverance. The flower signifies authenticity and artistry. And the arrow hearts represent determination and secrecy." She pushes open the door to our dorm room before the last word even leaves her lips and steps out without hesitation.
I trail behind her, shutting the door as I slip on my blazer. The hallway is brighter than last night, but the cold air still gives it an unwelcoming, serious atmosphere.
That was a pretty in-depth breakdown of symbols. I chew on my lip, mulling it over. "So, back to this whole secrecy thing—"
"No."
I glance over at Sophia. She's definitely the kind of girl who pretends she never farts, and if one did slip out, she'd probably pass out from sheer mortification. The thought makes me laugh.
Sophia turns to me sharply. "What?"
For a moment, I consider telling her. "Look, we're both stuck here, right? In this academy or whatever, at least until the holidays—" And then home forever.
She exhales sharply. "I'm not going home for any holidays."
I search her face for some kind of reaction but find nothing. I can't imagine not spending the holidays with my family. The idea alone makes my chest ache. "Still, we might as well make the best of it. Don't you think?"
Sophia doesn't answer. Instead, she pivots down a corridor lined with windows.
"This building takes time to learn," she says, as if my question never happened. "It zigzags, but the key thing to remember is that the exterior is a rectangle. If you follow the outer wall, you'll always find your way back."
It feels like talking to the supermarket lady back home, the one who hums constantly and barely listens. No matter what you ask, she responds with whatever's on her mind.
"And if you end up outside in a garden, that means you're in the center of the rectangle," Sophia continues, her voice as flat as if she's reading from a brochure. "The entire structure is three stories tall, except for one building with four stories."
"Missy's office," I say, relieved to recall at least one fact about this place.
"Yes." She gives me a quick, appraising look. "You can use that building to orient yourself. Consider it north, with the trainees' dormitory to the east. Directly opposite us, on the west side, are the staff quarters."
I keep track of each turn, every door we pass, a crack in the wall, even a step that's slightly steeper than the others, filing them away in my memory.
Sophia reaches the end of the corridor, descends three steps, and turns left. "Some training sessions are back-to-back, but most are spaced out since many involve high physical intensity. Monday through Friday are the most demanding, while weekends allow for some recovery. However, the producers can call an impromptu training at any time." She smooths down a stray hair. "Now, we're entering the north side of the building, where the studios and producers' offices are located." She gestures toward the opposite wall. "The south side houses common areas—the dining hall, practice rooms, recording booths, and so on."
I stop abruptly. "Wait—recording room? What kind?"
Sophia halts as well. "We have an extensive catalog of songs, including unreleased ones. Some of the best ones, actually."
A real recording room. My grin stretches wider. I've never been inside one before.
"But the facial expression training isn't up to standard," Sophia continues as if she hadn't noticed my excitement. "Though I hear they're expanding the training and development next term, so that may change. Not that it matters right now—we won't be on that side of the building until lunchtime."
My excitement dims. "Facial expression training?"
"Yes." She states it matter-of-factly.
"Why exactly do we need to learn that?"
She gives me a look like I just asked why people breathe. "You're thrilled about a recording room but confused about facial expression training? If this is some kind of act, you might want to work on it."
I stare at her. "Recording skills are useful. Facial training is just a fancy term for faking emotions."
"Right. Because that's so uncommon," she says flatly before turning away. "You have an appointment with the head of assessment. His office is just down this hall."
I reach for her wrist, but she effortlessly slips free before I can get a proper hold. Her glare sharpens, the first real emotion I've seen from her. "Don't ever do that."
"Touch your arm? Sorry. But hold on." I plant my feet. "I'm serious. What's with these weird classes and that whole 'every performance is a battle'? Something about this place feels... off." My unease grows stronger, a gnawing sensation in my gut. "And the trainee injuries Missy mentioned? I get that I can't ask for names, but can you at least tell me something? Should I be worried?"
For a moment, she looks almost puzzled. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth. Why are we at an isolated academy with rules that sound like they're preparing us for survival instead of stardom?" The uncertainty of not knowing where I stand makes my skin itch.
"There's less risk here than anywhere else," Sophia replies, her tone clipped, as if I've insulted her sense of reason.
"Doesn't look that way from where I'm standing."
She leans in slightly, her voice lowering. "I told you—quit playing innocent."
"This isn't a game." I hesitate. My instinct is to push harder. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm annoying you, but since my dad isn't here to interrogate—"
"Keep your voice down." Her tone is sharp, commanding. She glances down the empty hallway before shoving me back into the stairwell with surprising force. "Maybe this isn't an act. Maybe you genuinely don't know. But ignorance won't help you." Her voice is barely above a whisper, yet every word drips with accusation.
"Why do you think I'm faking? What would I even gain from that?"
"By mentioning only your father, you've just implied your mother isn't in the picture. Now I know something about you. I also know you weren't raised in America—your phrasing gives that away. The outfit you arrived in last night suggests you're from a mid-northern climate, and the style indicates a smaller town rather than a major city. Your features suggest Western European descent—likely Southern Italian, judging by your hair and eyes. That narrows you down to only a handful of possible industry backgrounds. Should I continue?"
I stare at her. Who is this girl? "Industry? What are you talking about?"
Her hands ball into fists. "You're loud, reckless, and there is no way I'm giving you information. Nice try, but you lost."
"Wait—"
"I'm done with this conversation." Her voice is cold, clipped. "I cannot believe President Missy paired us as roommates." Then she storms off at full speed.
Damn. I'm striking out left and right. Charm doesn't work, pushing doesn't work. I exhale and raise my hands in surrender. "Look, I'm really not trying to piss you off. I swear. My best friend always tells me I push so hard that I end up shoving people off a cliff. I get that you don't trust me, and I'll try to back off. But I'm not playing a game, and I honestly have no clue what I supposedly 'lost.'"
Before she can respond, a door creaks open. Trainees begin filtering into the hallway, all dressed in the same uniforms as us. Did a class just end? Their movements are precise, their voices hushed.
Sophia glides through the eerily silent crowd like she belongs, while I feel like an outsider. The glances I receive are so brief, so carefully restrained, that if I weren't paying attention, I'd think no one even noticed me. There's none of the open curiosity or side-eyed competition I'd expect in an elite training program.
A chill creeps down my spine. Something about this place unsettles me, making me doubt my dad's decision to push me here. It almost feels like a test, a setup to prove his constant warning that I'm too open with people. I can practically hear him saying: Look at this place and tell me I'm wrong—everyone here is fighting for something, and they'll do whatever it takes to win.
"Sophia."
A girl's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She approaches us, and for a split second, I think she is Sophia. They share the same poised demeanor, the same sharp gaze. But she's shorter—by about two inches.
"I'm surprised," she continues. "I would've expected you in the practice room by now."
I frown. Did she tell Sophia I arrived this morning? Or did they already know? The thought unsettles me. With no phones, no outside contact, the only way they could've been aware of my arrival was if it had been decided days in advance—before I even knew.
"Unusual circumstances." Sophia eyes me like I'm some kind of unidentifiable cafeteria mystery meat. "Dani, this is Manon, my new roommate. Manon, Dani."
"Sophia with a roommate. Who would've thought this day would ever come?" Dani looks straight at me, and I instinctively step back. Her gaze is intense—like she's picking apart every flaw, every insecurity I didn't even realize I had. Where Sophia is cold, Dani seems warm, yet there's nothing particularly welcoming about her presence.
"You didn't have a roommate before me?" I ask. Missy did mention there were only twenty trainees, and with how massive this place is, it makes sense that some people would have their own rooms. But it still seems lonely in such a high-pressure environment.
"Not everyone is suited for it," Sophia replies, and it sounds as much like a warning as it does an explanation.
"I assume Sophia's been taking good care of you?" Dani says before I can respond. The more she speaks, the more I notice how much she resembles Sophia—the same raised eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, even the way their posture naturally commands attention.
"She's an excellent tour guide," I say. "But so far, I'm a terrible guest. Mostly, I've just been bombarding her with questions." I pause, piecing together what little I know about her. "Is Dani short for... Daniela?"
Dani's smile widens, but there's something about it that feels calculated. "That's right. I'm surprised Sophia mentioned me—that's not really her style."
You can say that again. "She didn't," I admit. "It's just that Dani on its own isn't a Latin name. And since Sophia's name is Latin, I assumed yours would be too. I mean, you are siblings, right?"
The usual thrill I get from figuring things out is absent this time. Instead, I get the distinct feeling I've just stepped on a landmine.
Daniela turns her gaze to Sophia, completely ignoring me. "You told her?"
That confirms I was right.
Sophia tilts her chin up. "Obviously not."
They stare at each other for several long seconds. Neither speaks, but the sheer intensity of their silent exchange makes it clear they're communicating in some unspoken way—like rivals sizing each other up before a battle.
Finally, Daniela looks back at me. "I have some free time this afternoon. Maybe I'll join your tour—or even take over if Sophia needs a break?"
Every instinct in me wants to refuse, apologize to Sophia, and promise I'll stop asking questions if it means she won't hand me off to Daniela.
Thankfully, Sophia shakes her head. "You know she's my responsibility," she says, and while being called someone's responsibility isn't exactly flattering, I'm relieved.
"Well then, I guess I'll just see you both at lunch." Daniela suddenly holds up a small shield charm.
Sophia immediately checks the now-empty pocket of her blazer, while Daniela smirks triumphantly. "You win," she says, sounding mildly exasperated.
With a small bow, Daniela slips back into the crowd of trainees. Up close, her intensity is almost overwhelming, but as she disappears into the sea of identical uniforms, I find myself unable to look away. I'm not sure if I'm more intrigued or intimidated.
I sink into one of the sleek black couches in the assessment room. Framed portraits of legendary performers—faces frozen in expressions of intense focus—line the walls, their eyes seeming to follow my every move. The ceiling is a grid of white panels, and the tall, narrow window beside me reveals nothing but dense tree branches swaying in the wind.
Dr. Randy sets down a silver tray in front of me, the scent of freshly baked bread, butter, and jam filling the room. My stomach clenches in response. Few things in the world are better than fresh bread. And considering I was likely drugged on the plane, I have no clue how long it's been since my last meal.
"Now, Manon, I'm going to ask you a series of questions," Dr. Randy says, settling into the couch across from me.
"The most important thing is that you answer honestly," he continues, crossing his legs as he opens a leather folder. "It will help us determine the best way to integrate you into the program. Given that we rarely accept trainees midseason—especially one as old as you—we don't have the luxury of slowly evaluating your strengths and weaknesses the way we normally would."
"Understood. Fire away," I say, though my brain is already running its own analysis of him. "Did you receive any of my training records?"
He lifts an eyebrow. "Certainly not. I can assure you that none of that information exists here. Everything discussed in this room is strictly confidential. The only people with access to your file are President Missy and myself."
Sophia's and Missy's warnings ring in my head. Did he think I was testing him? Trying to see if any of my past training history had followed me here?
"Oh, good. Then let's tackle your questions," I say with less pep.
Dr. Randy strokes his short beard, watching me closely. "Would you say you're more of an introvert or an extrovert?"
"Extrovert. A hundred percent," I reply without hesitation.
"Do you have any current injuries that limit your movement?"
"Nope. No injuries."
"Which level of balance most accurately describes you—staying steady while stepping, spinning, or doing a flip?"
I can feel my forehead scrunching as I consider my answer. Where is he possibly going with this? It feels more like an assessment for playing extreme sports than for an academy. "Spinning. Are there really people at this academy who can do a flip?"
"Performance skills?" Randy asks, ignoring my question.
"Excellent."
He looks up for a brief moment. "How excellent?"
"I can sing, dance, command a stage—basically, if there's music and a spotlight, I can perform. It's sort of a—" I stop myself before mentioning the ongoing debate among my friends about what genre or routine I can master the fastest. Rule number one, I remind myself.
He lifts his eyebrows. "Live or recorded?"
"Either."
"Live or recorded?"
"Really, both are fine."
"I'm glad you think so," he says in a way that tells me he's not glad. "But when I give you a choice, I expect you to choose."
I shift my position on the couch even though I don't need to. "Live."
"Why?" he says, and looks up at me.
"Well," I say, and pause. "There's nothing like the energy of a crowd. That moment when the music hits, the lights go up, and you connect with people—it's powerful."
He nods and jots down a note, which by this point in this bizarre conversation, I would really like to see.
"Which of your strengths would you say is the most refined?"
"Huh, okay, let me think." When I was little, my dad and I used to play this game where we'd mimic different sounds or movements, trying to match them perfectly. He'd play a song once and challenge me to sing it back without missing a note. We'd study dancers and pick apart their movements, seeing how close we could get to their precision. I thought it was just for fun, but looking back, I think he was training me—turning practice into a game so I wouldn't feel the pressure.
Randy clears his throat. "Next question."
"Wait, I have my answer."
He looks at me pointedly. "I said next question, Manon."
"Some combination of musicality and adaptability," I say quickly before he can start talking again, not because I couldn't pass on the question, but because I don't like to be silenced.
He doesn't react. "Would you rather lead a world tour, record a number-one album, or have legendary status?"
I hesitate.
"It's not a difficult question," Randy says, and my brain snaps into motion.
A world tour probably means you thrive on stage, living for the adrenaline of performing night after night. A number-one album? Mastering your craft in the studio, making music that lasts. Legendary status...well, that's about legacy, making an impact beyond just the moment.
Randy touches his beard and looks between me and the folder as he jots down notes.
"Legendary status," I say, even though a world tour is definitely the most accurate for me. However, if there's one thing I get the sense this industry values, it's leaving a lasting mark.
He grunts. "And your sense of stage awareness?"
"Solid."
"Performance stamina?"
"I can keep up..."
"Composition?"
"As in writing music?" Boy, this guy doesn't waste a single word.
"As in writing or arranging."
I shrug. "No formal experience."
He looks up at me for a second, and I get the sense he doesn't believe me. "Okay, good. That will give us a starting point at least for class assignment."
Randy puts the leather folder on the table. He looks at the untouched tray of food. "Aren't you going to have some bread and jam?"
"Thanks, but I'm good. Feel free to eat without me," I say, forcing myself not to look at the steaming bread sitting in front of me.
"You must be hungry. You haven't eaten since you arrived," he says with an easy smile.
After what they probably did to me on the flight, there's no way I'm touching it. I meet his gaze head-on. "This is an assessment room, and you're evaluating me, aren't you? The only logical conclusion is that the food is part of my assessment, and I'm not sure I want to find out how."
His expression flickers—like I've confirmed something he was testing for. "You're skeptical. Or maybe it's just me you don't trust."
For a second, I'm caught off guard. No one's ever called me skeptical before. And this feels different—like he's studying how I think, not just gathering surface-level data.
"I don't like making the same mistake twice," I answer carefully.
He pauses, watching me, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he evaluates me. It's unsettling, not knowing what criteria I'm being judged on or what conclusions he's already drawn.
Dr. Randy leans back against the couch, his posture casual, almost friendly.
"How much do you know about Dream Academy, Manon?" he finally asks.
"Very little," I admit. He studies me for a moment, then nods, as if confirming I'm telling the truth.
"President Missy asked me to give you a brief introduction—some background and what's expected of you here," he says. I lean forward, eager for any information I can get.
"Yes, please." At this point, I'll take whatever insight I can get.
He folds his hands in his lap. "But," he emphasizes, "understand that this will not make up for the wealth of training and knowledge you've missed over the past two years."
It feels like a warning. If they're this concerned about what I've missed, why did they even let me in?
"Before we go any further, though—President Missy did explain rule number one to you, didn't she?"
"Never reveal personal information about yourself or your background," I recite.
Dr. Randy nods. "We also expect you to exercise caution with anyone you recognize. It's inevitable that some of you will have crossed paths before, but it's in those moments—when you're comfortable—that you're at your most vulnerable."
He's fishing for something, but I don't take the bait. "Not a problem," I say smoothly. "I don't know anyone."
He watches me a beat longer, then clears his throat. "Now, let's begin. Dream Academy was created as an elite training ground for the most promising performers. It was the first time two major entertainment networks collaborated for a shared vision. Then, as now, they agreed on one thing—excellence and security for their talent must always come before industry politics."
I blink. What politics? I want to ask, but before I can, he keeps talking.
"All trainees are required to take the same core classes," Randy continues. "Beyond that, they choose specialized electives such as vocal agility, heels classes, music production, choreography composition, and media training. While individual skill levels vary, there is a strict divide between the foundation-level trainees and the advanced-tier performers. If a foundation trainee fails to meet the advanced-tier standards, they are not permitted to continue."
He pauses, as if making sure I understand how serious that is.
"And because I'm twenty-one, I assume I've been placed as an advanced-tier trainee?" I ask.
"You are." His tone is neutral, but I don't miss the weight behind his words. "We've been assured that your skills—your vocals, your stage presence—are up to standard. Unfortunately, you've missed two and a half years of instruction."
I rub my hands together.
After a moment, he hands me a sheet of paper with eight squares of color on it.
"Rank these from one to eight. One being your favorite, eight being your least favorite. No need to overthink—just go with what speaks to you."
I look up at him. First the cryptic questions, now a color test?
Randy holds out a pen and a pencil.
I take the pencil and quickly mark a 1 next to yellow and a 2 next to green. The colors remind me of stage lights and electric energy—nothing like this dull, gray room. I'm about to mark a 3 next to red when the pencil snaps in my hand. The entire point breaks clean off.
I glance at Randy. He's watching me carefully, completely unfazed. He doesn't offer a new pencil. Doesn't offer the pen. Just observes.
Is he waiting to see if I'll ask for help? Yeah, that's not happening.
I stick the pencil between my teeth and bite down on the wood. With my fingernails, I chip away at it until I have a crude tip. Then I finish marking the rest of the colors, pretending not to notice his unwavering stare.
When I'm done, I stand and hand him the paper.
He nods at it, like it's confirming something he already suspected.
"You're dismissed."
Randy turns and walks back to his desk, but I don't move.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
He glances over his shoulder.
"The food you offered me earlier... was it safe?"
Randy smirks. He reaches into his blazer and pulls out a small glass vial filled with clear liquid.
"The antidote."
My stomach turns.
I assumed the food was part of some test, but I hadn't seriously considered that the person responsible for helping me survive this program might actually poison me.
He settles into his chair, smoothing out his vest before glancing at the clock.
"And now you must go," he says, his tone clipped. "I have a schedule to keep."
I don't need to be told twice. My hand grips the door latch, and I'm out of there before he can say anything else.
I trail my fingertips along the cool, smooth studio walls as I follow Sophia down the dimly lit hallway. The silence between us lingers. I had asked her about the assessment and the broken pencil, but she only asked what I had done in response. That made me wonder what information I'd be giving away if I answered honestly. So I let it go.
We step into the rehearsal space, its walls lined with vintage concert posters and shimmering gold plaques. The moment Sophia stops in front of a double door, a guard pulls it open without a word.
"Thanks," I say, but he doesn't respond. I sigh under my breath.
All my frustration vanishes the second I step onto the open-air training stage. My sneakers sink slightly into the springy flooring. The atmosphere feels alive—like the very air is charged with every dream that's ever been rehearsed here.
Towering lights frame the perimeter giving the space an ethereal, almost cinematic quality. Above, massive rigging structures crisscross to support aerial silks and harnesses. It's a performer's playground, built for those who can command a stage with more than just their voice.
I reach out and brush my fingers against a silk ribbon hanging from the rigging, giving it a gentle tug. "Okay, maybe this place isn't so bad," I admit, my voice breathy from awe. I snap my mouth shut when I realize I've been standing there, gaping like an overwhelmed trainee on their first day.
"This area is part of our movement and acrobatics training," Sophia says, her tone sharp. "And it's strictly forbidden to use the silks without a staff present."
So much for that.
"When's that class?" I ask.
"Tomorrow."
"For advanced-tier trainees only, or everyone?"
"We don't use grade levels like that," she pauses. "And we don't train with minors. They have lighter schedules, leaving them more time to practice and refine their skills." Sophia gives me a sidelong glance. "Keep up. We still have a lot to get through."
I follow her, trying to figure out a way to ask what I really want to know without getting another cryptic answer—or frustrating her. The more I see, the more I realize this isn't just some elite training program that churns out idols after a few months of rehearsals. No one just pops in for a few weeks and leaves. There's a permanence to this place, an unspoken commitment. And that unsettles me.
We step through an open-air lounge that feels straight out of a dream. "The trainee's lounge," Sophia says with quiet pride. "It's open during daylight hours."
"This place is phenomenal," I admit. But beneath the beauty, I'm still tangled in my own doubts—questions about my future and what exactly I've signed up for.
Sophia strides toward the next room and gestures for me to follow.
And I do. "I thought you said there was a class in there?"
"There is," she says, stepping inside.
I barely make it through before I gasp.
To our left, five performers stand in perfect formation, poised, focused, every move executed with laser-sharp precision. To our right, a massive mirror wall reflects their every motion—no room for error, no chance to hide.
"Music on," commands a wiry woman with sharp cheekbones, dressed in an all-black version of our rehearsal gear.
The beat drops, and the five dancers explode into movement. Their turns are razor-sharp, their isolations crisp, their footwork so fast I barely register it. Every move lands on the beat with impossible accuracy, not a single misstep.
"Easy enough," the instructor says smoothly.
I swallow hard. I cannot believe how good they all are.
"Now try it with freestyle," she adds.
One of the dancers steps forward from the rest, and the way her gaze locks onto me makes my stomach tighten—Daniela. She gives Sophia and me a knowing grin before launching into a spin, twisting her body midair. At the height of her jump, she pops into a sharp isolation, freezing for just a moment before landing in a perfectly controlled step.
My mouth falls open. "That was insane," I whisper to Sophia.
The instructor turns toward me, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Since you have enough breath to talk during my class, I assume you're ready to take the floor?"
Before I can protest, a mic stand slides across the floor and stops at my feet. I instinctively take a step back. A second later, a mic lands neatly beside it.
"Um, I don't—" I start.
But before I can even finish, Sophia steps forward, picks up the mic, and effortlessly belts out a single, powerful note that rings through the studio. The room stills. Even Daniela looks impressed.
"It won't happen again, Ms. Nikky," she says smoothly, lowering the mic.
A new voice cuts through the tension, and I turn just in time to see another performer step forward—a girl with bleached-white hair and an effortless, confident posture. She grins, tilts her head slightly, then steps into a series of intricate footwork patterns, ending in a sharp pose.
And then—she winks at me.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Sophia practically shoves me back through the studio doors and into the hallway. "How dare you embarrass me like that!"
I stare at her in disbelief. "Pretty sure I embarrassed myself. You, on the other hand, just delivered the cleanest note I've ever heard. And after seeing that, I'm seriously regretting ever getting on your bad side."
"There are rules, alliances, respect," Sophia huffs, clearly annoyed. "You never interrupt an instructor. And especially not her. Nikky is..." She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "Do something like that again, and I'm demanding a new roommate."
I press my lips together. I've never seen another trainee get this upset over someone talking during practice. And I've definitely never seen a trainer react like that. I'm not just out of my element here—my instincts are completely off.
"I'm sorry, Sophia. I really am. I'm just not used to how things work here yet."
Her expression softens slightly as she straightens the seams of her already perfectly fitted jacket. "That's the second time you've apologized to me today."
I half-smile. "You'll know it's really bad when I start buying you gifts. My best friend used to keep an ongoing request list."
Sophia eyes me curiously, then exhales. "Let's go," she says, her tone signaling that she's no longer upset.
She weaves through the mirrored studio and heads toward the far exit, where sleek white soundproof panels separate one rehearsal space from the next. I hesitate before following, running my hand over the smooth wall as I pass. A security guard watches us closely as he pulls the door shut behind us. There's an odd scar above his right eyebrow—an X, sharp and deliberate. He doesn't speak, but he makes no effort to hide the fact that he's sizing me up.
Sophia gestures at the wide, high-ceilinged hallway lined with framed records and glimmering trophies. "We're now in the south wing. These awards commemorate some of the biggest achievements from our legacy artists."
I glance at the golden plaques and gleaming statues. Randy's words about history echo in my mind. But the last time I asked Sophia directly about the industry, she got annoyed. Plus, the security guard is still watching me, and it's making my skin prickle.
Two girls step into the hallway, speaking in hushed voices. But instead of passing through, they stop.
"Lara," the girl says, introducing herself gracefully. Lara... Indian, I think. But it's also a name used in cultures across the world.
"And this is Karlee," Lara continues, and I catch a refined British accent. The girl next to her gives a small bow.
"Manon," I say.
"If you don't already have plans for lunch, feel free to join us," Karlee says.
"Oh, thanks," I say, surprised by the sudden invitation. Finally, a normal welcome. "That'd be great."
With that, Lara and Karlee nod and move on without another word. Okay, maybe not completely normal, but compared to the cold stares and silent judgment I've been getting, this is easily one of the friendliest interactions I've had all day.
I turn to Sophia, but her expression has turned icy.
"Did I do something wrong?" I ask. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the security guard shift ever so slightly, as if listening in.
Sophia speed-walks out of the room and into the hallway. Halfway down, she stops and glances both ways, making sure we're alone.
"Lara's... She's bad news," she says in a hushed voice.
I blink at her. "What?"
"She's a master of accents—the best in the entire academy."
I stare at her. "Did you just tell me something personal about someone?" I can't help but grin.
Sophia rolls her eyes. "What I told you is that you do not want to mess with her."
I press my lips together, pretty sure that whatever I say next will only make things worse.
"You're not ready to go up against Lara," Sophia says, her voice sharp. "And your recklessness is going to drag all of us down."
I exhale loudly. "I genuinely don't know what you want from me. You shut me down when I ask questions, then snap at me when I admit I don't understand what's happening. I get that maybe you don't like Lara, but if she invited me to have lunch with her, I don't see the big deal. Unless, of course, you suddenly feel like explaining."
Sophia stares at me, long and hard. For a second, it almost seems like she wants to say something—ask me something. But instead, she spins on her heel and walks off, even faster than before.
"Sophia?" I call after her.
"I need to think," she says, and I practically have to jog to keep up.
For the next hour, Sophia doesn't say a single word to me that isn't absolutely necessary.
Sophia strides one step ahead of me into the dining hall, which looks more like a grand ballroom than a cafeteria. The entire space feels like it belongs in an awards show afterparty—chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, velvet chairs lined up in perfect rows, and white tablecloths that seem way too pristine for a room full of trainees.
At the front of the room, an elevated table seats about twenty, clearly reserved for the producers. Two long banquet-style tables stretch across the floor. Elegant floral centerpieces run down the center, and the silverware gleams under the warm glow of candlelight. It's a far cry from the noisy, chaotic lunchrooms I'm used to.
Trainees move gracefully to their seats, conversations flowing in quiet murmurs rather than the usual cafeteria clatter. I trail behind Sophia, my gaze flickering between the opulent decor and the polished plates set before each chair.
Then, I hear my name.
I glance up to see Lara beaming at me from across the table. "Sit, sit," she says, motioning enthusiastically. Karlee, ever the gentlewoman, pulls out a chair.
"Sophia," I start, turning to her. "Do you want to—"
"No," she says flatly, continuing down the aisle without another glance. I watch as she disappears further into the room.
"Don't worry so much," Lara says, waving a hand dismissively. "Sophia worries enough for all of us."
Still feeling slightly unsettled, I accept the seat Karlee offers. "Thanks," I say as she sits down beside me.
Lara pushes a bowl of roasted vegetables and a steaming dish of lasagna in my direction. "You're quite the hot topic around here," she says. "Not that anyone will tell you that."
Across from us, a girl with black hair, turns and gives Lara a sharp look.
"What?" Lara challenges. "Problem?"
The girl shakes her head and returns her focus to her meal, clearly unfazed. If anything, she seems used to Lara's boldness.
Karlee quietly pours me a glass of water.
"Funny," I say, tilting my head. "Barely anyone here has even looked at me, let alone spoken to me."
"We're not the most openly friendly bunch," Karlee replies, sounding like she prefers it that way.
"Speak for yourself," Lara interjects. "I'm an absolute delight."
Karlee raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure most of this room would disagree."
"Says the brooding storm cloud," she teases, mouth full.
Karlee gives her a pointed look.
"Okay, okay," she says, holding up her hands in exaggerated surrender. "You're not gloomy. An absolute riot, really. People just can't contain their laughter around you. You must take after your—"
"Lara," Karlee cuts in, her tone sharpening, her posture stiffening.
Lara laughs, leaning back with effortless confidence. "You should really see your face, mate."
I glance between her and Karlee as I grab a piece of garlic bread. The atmosphere in this academy might be intense, but one thing is undeniable—the food is next-level.
"Now, Manon," Lara says, resting her chin in her palm. "Tell us all about you."
I smirk. "I thought rule number one here was to keep things to yourself."
"Did you really think for a second that we don't share anything personal?" Lara challenges. "You know what else is a rule no one follows? No dating."
I nearly choke on my cider. Lara bursts into laughter, loud and unapologetic. A few trainees shoot us looks, but she glares back until they turn away.
"Well, good thing I'm going home soon," I say, setting down my glass.
Karlee tilts her head slightly. "Home?"
"For the holidays," I clarify.
Lara and Karlee exchange a look—quick, but intentional. It feels like they've just come to some kind of conclusion about me. I glance down the long table toward Sophia, debating whether I should join her instead.
"It's hard when you first get here," Lara says. "We all had to adjust. Granted, we've been here a while now. But you, what are you, twenty-one?"
I shrug. "Which, around here, makes me ancient."
Karlee dips a piece of bread in tomato sauce, shaking her head. "It's not about age. It's that you're the first student we've ever heard of who got in this late. How did you manage that? Must have cost a fortune."
Karlee's intonation and posture make me study her more closely. It's rare to meet someone who has all the awkwardness of a debate club nerd and yet the effortless cool of a rogue in an action movie.
Lara nods, waiting for my answer.
"I..." If I say my family never had much money, I'll be revealing something personal. But if I claim I don't know, I'll just sound clueless. Damn. Conversations here feel like walking through a minefield.
I chuckle, trying to steer the focus away from me. "Secrets are secrets," I say lightly. From the corner of my eye, I catch an almost imperceptible smirk from the girl with black hair. "But enough about me. Let's talk about you, Karlee. By the way you emphasize the 'e' in your name, I'm guessing you're Korean?"
I pause for dramatic effect. "Did you know your name means 'free woman'? And Lara, your name comes from Sanskrit—which is linked to the word Laranya. It also means grace or elegance, though it's used across many cultures."
I tap my fingers against the table, recalling details. "Sanskrit's a dead language, though. And funnily enough, Lara is a name given to both boys and girls. It's flexible. Kinda like your accent. Maybe it's even... an alias?"
Lara claps her hands together in slow, exaggerated applause, then lets out a laugh, louder than before. More trainees glance over, their expressions somewhere between annoyance and curiosity.
"Game on! I like this girl."
I take a bite of lasagna just as a new voice enters the conversation.
"Manon."
I turn to see Daniela standing behind me. Her posture is casual, but her gaze is sharp, calculating. Her dark hair is neatly styled, and her eyelashes are unfairly long.
"Oh, go away, Dani," Lara groans. "We were just starting to have some fun." She slaps her hands on the table, causing the plates to rattle.
The girl with black hair looks up at the commotion.
"If you take Manon away," Lara continues dramatically, "I'll be stuck with Yoonchae—" she gestures toward the girl with black hair, "—and well, Karlee." She inclines her head toward Karlee with a teasing smirk.
"As much as I hate to interrupt your little game—oh, I mean fun—" Daniela says, her voice smooth but sharp, "Manon has a lot to cover on her tour. Best to get a head start before lunch is over."
Lara scoffs, but there's no real hostility between them. Meanwhile, Karlee and I exchange tense glances.
"Why don't we ask Manon what she wants?" Lara says, turning to me with a playful smirk. "Would you rather wander the empty hallways with this silver-tongued strategist, who's analyzing your every move, or stay here, eat some incredible food, and laugh with us?"
"Oh, Lara, you're not still upset about the dance ranking, are you?" Daniela says casually, but something about her tone sends a chill down my spine. The calmer she sounds, the more dangerous she seems.
Lara pushes back her chair so fast it screeches against the floor. "Oh, Daniela," she drawls, "how's that studious sister of yours? So meticulous, so predictable. If there's one person I can always find, it's darling Sophia."
Her accent is flawless, but it's the challenge in her eyes that really unsettles me.
I set my napkin on the table deliberately. "And you know who's always with Sophia? Me. Her roommate. The one who somehow got into this academy after the cutoff age. Midseason. Funny, isn't it? Makes you wonder what else I can do that none of you can."
I reach to push my chair back, but before I can, Karlee grips the back of it and pulls it out for me, the movement just a little too forceful. As she leans in, she murmurs near my ear, "I know."
My pulse spikes. "Excuse me?"
But Karlee doesn't acknowledge she said anything. She just sits back down, as if nothing happened.
I stand and start to walk away, but Daniela stops me with a simple, quiet command.
"Check your pockets, Manon."
Something about the way she says it makes my stomach drop. Slowly, I reach into my cloak pocket—and pull out a salad fork.
What?
Daniela plucks it from my hand and tosses it onto the table with a sharp clang.
Lara grins and blows me a kiss.
I swallow hard and turn on my heel, following Daniela out of the dining hall. Regret twists in my chest—Sophia did warn me about this. The moment the doors shut behind us, I rounded on her.
"What the hell was that?"
Daniela barely looks at me. "It's against the rules to take anything from the dining hall. Especially silverware. Anything that could be used as a weapon. The kitchen staff counts everything after every meal. A missing fork would've triggered a search."
I blink. "But when—"
"When Karlee pulled out your chair," Daniela interrupts smoothly.
Realization crashes over me.
"So they set me up?"
Daniela studies me as I process everything, and suddenly I realize—I'm alone with her.
I glance down the hallway in both directions. "Isn't Sophia coming?"
"No. She's finishing her meal."
"Shouldn't we wait?" I hesitate. "Didn't she want to be the one to show me around?"
Daniela's smile is effortless, but there's something sharp behind it. Instinctively, I take a step back toward the cafeteria doors.
"You just chose to sit with Lara when she told you not to."
I open my mouth, trying to come up with a reason to delay this tour, but I can't think of one.
"Sophia is a very capable girl," Daniela continues, emphasizing capable like it means something more. Is she telling me not to worry about Lara's challenge, or that it wasn't my place to stand up for Sophia?
"I don't doubt it," I reply carefully.
Daniela starts walking down the hall at an unhurried pace, completely at ease. I keep up, watching her out of the corner of my eye. Even if she doesn't think I should have stepped in for Sophia, the fact that I did has to count for something, right?
"If you have a question, just ask." Daniela's voice is smooth, polished—like she already knows what I'm thinking.
I frown. She's not even looking at me, yet somehow it feels like she's reading every little movement I make.
"Do I need to worry about Lara now?"
"Yes." Her answer is immediate. "But not just because of that conversation. Attention from Lara in general is a bad sign. What did she say to you? Maybe I can help you sort it out."
I hesitate, then decide to tell her. "Right before we left, Karlee whispered, 'I know.'"
Daniela nods slightly. "Could mean a few things. Either Karlee knows who you are, she knows something you don't want her to, or she was just throwing you off to slip that fork into your pocket."
"Well, she can't know who I am because I've never met her before," I say.
Daniela gives me a look like I've said something laughably naïve. "That's the weakest logic I've heard in a long time. Karlee doesn't have to meet you to know who you are. She could know your affiliations. She could have known about you coming here before you arrived. There are plenty of ways to figure someone out in this industry, and whether or not you've met before has nothing to do with it."
I hold her gaze, my jaw tightening. I want to argue—to tell her I'm nothing like the other trainees at this academy, that no one here should know me. But if I say that, I'll just be giving him more information.
Instead, I ask, "When did you know I was coming?"
The corners of her mouth lift slightly. "Sophia found out the night you arrived. Just a few hours before you got here."
I stare ahead, trying to make sense of that answer. It tells me the academy knew about my arrival—but for how long? How much did they know before I even stepped foot here?
"Did Lara say anything else?" Daniela asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"She wanted me to tell her how I got into this academy so late."
Daniela stops in front of a door, looking almost amused. "Do you always tell the truth?"
Great. How am I supposed to answer that? "Do you always stare at people with those laser-beam eyes?"
She actually laughs, but it doesn't make her any less intense.
For a second, we just stood there. I reach for the door handle, but she beats me to it, pulling it open and holding it for me.
"The advanced trainees' lounge," Daniela says smoothly, gesturing for me to enter.
I let my shoulders drop slightly. This is the warmest, most welcoming room I've seen here so far. A fireplace flickers in the corner, a sleek grand piano sits by the window, and plush armchairs are positioned around cozy reading tables. Unlike the rest of this academy, which is all grandeur and cold perfection, this space actually feels lived in.
I walk straight to the massive window, pressing my palm to the cool glass. Outside, I can see a few dancers rehearsing near the courtyard, their movements sharp and fluid under the midday sun. The scene reminds me of something—of home, of another life before all of this.
Daniela watches me closely as I stare out the window at the dancers rehearsing in the courtyard. "Sophia told me you weren't prepared for this academy."
My smile vanishes. I scan the room instinctively, only one exit. "And Sophia thought I was playing some kind of game."
"Were you?" Daniela asks, her gaze razor-sharp, like she's reading me piece by piece.
I shrug, keeping my focus on the scene outside, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart pounds.
"Interesting," she murmurs.
"Interesting what?" I snap, putting a little too much emphasis on the last word.
"You weren't prepared."
I meet her eyes. "I never said that."
"You did," Daniela counters smoothly. "If you were pretending to be unprepared as a strategy, you wouldn't have drawn attention to it. You'd keep up the act. But the moment I questioned you, your pulse spiked, and you looked away."
My brows knit together. "How the hell would you know if my pulse spiked?"
"The vein in your neck."
I instinctively raise a hand to my throat. "Stay away from my neck."
Daniela smirks. "You also shook your head slightly, an unconscious 'no.' And you took a sharp breath through your mouth instead of your nose. That's stress." she pauses, letting the weight of her words sink in. "What you do with names—piecing them together, figuring out identities—I do with body language."
I cross my arms. "Okay?"
Daniela's expression stays pleasant, but the message is clear. "You're my sister's roommate. Don't lie to me. I'll know."
"Is that a threat?"
"Only if it needs to be."
I exhale and rub my hands over my face. "You know what? I think I'm going back to the cafeteria."
"Dining hall," she corrects.
I take a deep breath, and I know she notices.
"You don't like being here," she observes, and I stop mid-step. Daniela's ability to read me is beyond frustrating. "If you weren't showing your hand all the time, you'd probably like it more."
I glare at her. "I'd like it more if everyone here was less creepy." Daniela's grin widens. "And stop smirking like that. If anyone needs to be less obvious, it's you with your constant gloating."
To my surprise, she actually laughs—like a real, genuine laugh. She stops, her expression turning serious. "What you did with Lara wasn't smart."
I scoff. "I was defending your sister."
"You think that's what you did?" She shakes her head. "All you did was show Lara that you're blindly loyal. That you chose a side in less than a day. That you're emotional, and that if she pressures the right people, she can get a reaction out of you. Maybe even hurt you. You didn't defend Sophia—you made her a target."
I clench my jaw. "This whole place is just mind games and manipulation. Why would anyone even want to hurt me? I've been here for one day. This academy sucks. I can't wait for my two weeks to be over."
For the first time, her expression falters. "Two weeks?"
"Yeah, until the holidays."
She repeats it, like the word itself is foreign. "Holidays."
I narrow my eyes. "Lara looked at me the same way when I said that."
Daniela lets out a low whistle. "Oh boy. You really don't know how this place works."
A pit forms in my stomach. "What do you mean?"
"We don't go home for the holidays."
My breath catches. "We as in... you and Sophia? Or everyone?"
"Everyone." Her voice is firm, like she's waiting for me to grasp the weight of her words. "Holidays—any of them, really—aren't celebrated here. New Year's is the closest thing, but since people come from all over the world, even that isn't unified. Here? We celebrate nothing."
I stare at her, my mind racing. No way. I press my fingers to my forehead, swallowing against the lump in my throat.
I got in when no one else could.
Maybe I can get out.
Daniela watches me closely, and for once, she doesn't throw it in my face.
She studies me like I'm some impossible puzzle. "I've never met anyone who didn't want to be here. Who didn't see this as an honor."
I snort. "I find that really hard to believe. There's no laughter here. No easygoing energy. No fun."
Daniela's lips curl. "Oh, there's fun. I'm just not sure you'd call it that. Or that you could keep up."
I hold her gaze. "Try me."
She takes her time, like she's deciding how much to say. "Let's see... Friday and Saturday nights, curfew is extended to midnight. And from twelve to twelve-ten, security shifts change, reducing active patrols to about a third." Her eyes glint mischievously. "If you think you can handle it, meet me outside by the rooftop tomorrow night."
I watch her face carefully. Sneaking out? Taking a risk? She knows how to get under my skin. Sophia must have told her how I reacted to that open-air stage, how badly I wanted to move.
"Or don't," she adds with an infuriating smile.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but the idea excites me. "Why on earth should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't."
I grunt.
"But if you weren't prepped for this academy, I'm guessing you have questions."
I glance at her sideways. Damn, she's good. "And you're saying you'll answer them?"
The door creaks open before she can reply. Sophia walks in, her movements effortless, like she's floating across the room.
In a blink, Daniela's entire demeanor shifts. She's suddenly farther away, leaning lazily against the window, like we weren't just planning to break the rules.
Sophia holds up a delicate bracelet with a shield charm, a smug smile on her face. "One to zero, Dani."
I lie on my bed, absentmindedly twisting the end of my braid. The dim glow of the bedside lamp flickers, casting restless shadows across the ceiling, like dancers caught mid-motion.
"It just doesn't make sense," I mutter to no one in particular.
Dad had to have known about this academy—because from what I've seen, you're either in the inner circle, or you're completely shut out. Yet, somehow, he got me in after the cutoff age.
The restlessness wins. I push back the covers, cross the room, and ease open my door.
Sophia is curled up on the black couch, lost in a worn book, the gold lettering on the cover faded from time. I glance at the clock—11:50 p.m. If I'm going to sneak out tomorrow night, I might as well get a sense of the obstacles I'll be dealing with.
My fingers brush the locks.
Sophia doesn't look up. "It's past curfew."
"I'm just stepping into the hallway."
Her dark hair shifts as she shakes her head. "Not unless you want a mark against you."
"A mark?"
"For breaking curfew. For trying to get into a restricted area. For opening a curtain at night and letting light out—any of it. Three marks, and they hand out a punishment of their choosing."
I hesitate. "What kind of punishment?"
"Depends. But it's never good."
I thought about telling her that her sister invited me to meet her outside after curfew—an offense probably worth twenty marks—but decided against it.
Instead, I carefully choose my next words. "Sophia?"
She marks her page with a finger. "Yes?"
I exhale, steadying myself. "If I'm asking something I shouldn't, don't tell me. You were right about Lara. I made a mistake. And I don't want to misstep again."
Something in her expression softens.
I press forward, keeping my tone measured. "Well..." I hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. "Is there anything you can tell me?"
She presses her lips together, eyes scanning me like she's making a decision.
Before she could answer, the latch shifts beneath my hand, and I jolt back just as the door swings open. The guard with the X-shaped scar above his eyebrow stands on the other side. His sharp eyes narrow ever so slightly when they land on me.
We stare at each other for a beat.
Just as I'm about to ask what his problem is, he turns and walks away without a word.
I glance at Sophia for an explanation, but she's already moving. "Get dressed. Fast."
I sprint to my room, yanking on my clothes as quickly as possible. By the time I'm done, Sophia is waiting by the open door, looking effortlessly composed—like she's been standing there for hours.
She tosses me my blazer. "Come on."
I follow her at full speed into the hallway, where open doors spill light into the corridor as trainees file out. I want to ask what is going on, but I don't need to broadcast my cluelessness in front of everyone.
We move with the other girls down three flights of stairs to the foyer leading to the courtyard. It mirrors the south side of the building, with its towering statues—except this side is bare, save for two lights and a few faded tapestries.
The girls settle into a U-shape on the floor. Sophia and I are among the last to join. I do a quick count—ten of us. Maybe this is just for the advanced trainees?
Across from me, Lara smirks, her quiet friend with the dreads fidgeting with her blazer's hem. I hold Lara's gaze, my mind spinning.
"Welcome."
Missy steps into view, descending the staircase. She's wearing the exact same ruffled blouse, blazer, and black pants as last night. It's almost eerie—like time doesn't touch this place. Even her severe bun hasn't budged.
"I trust that when we search your rooms tonight, we'll find that everything is in order." Her gaze sweeps over us. Heads nod.
I swallow, remembering the fork I hid, and make a mental note to ask Sophia if Karlee knew this search was coming.
"As you all know, we have a new student." Missy's eyes landed on me. "So I thought we'd play a strategy game."
A small, strained smile flickers across her face. "We talk a lot about this academy's best performers—their accomplishments, their dazzling victories. But we rarely talk about their failures." She pauses, letting the silence stretch.
"There was a trainee who dominated every midnight strategy challenge. Every. Single. One."
She shifts her weight, watching us.
"What's interesting is that in her first weeks here? She lost. Over and over. So often, in fact, that people would groan when they had to compete against her. Until one day, everything changed."
She lets the words hang in the air.
"How do you explain that?"
"She spent her time studying every move her competition made," Lara says, her voice now carrying a smooth Italian lilt. "She learned their weaknesses, memorized their strengths, and once she had the full picture, she used it to her advantage. By the time people realized she was a threat, it was already too late. No one expected her to win, and that was her greatest weapon."
"Exactly." Missy nods. "True greatness comes from sharp observation. Take Yoonchae, for example—she notices details the rest of you overlook."
She gestures toward Lara's quiet friend, who immediately stiffens at the unexpected compliment.
Across from her, a petite girl shoots Yoonchae a look that can only be described as jealousy. Lara gives her a single glance, and just like that, the girl turns away. Interesting.
"You're all trained to read people—verbal cues, body language—but your egos cloud your judgment," Missy continues. "Your hunger to win blinds you to what's right in front of you. The best performers don't make that mistake."
She folds her hands behind her back.
"If you want to be truly great, you need to find solutions, even when they don't immediately serve you. Now—what else can we learn from our former trainee?"
Sophia shifts slightly beside me. "If she won every challenge, she didn't just memorize her competitors' habits. She learned how they thought—and then she thought differently. People assume others will react the way they would. If we push, they'll push back. If we help, they'll be grateful. But when someone acts outside of expectation, it throws everything off balance."
Missy smiles approvingly.
"And that's exactly what she did. Over and over again. Just when people thought they understood her, she changed. She was the most breathtakingly fearless performer this academy has ever seen."
The air in the courtyard shifts. The other girls take this lesson seriously. I see it in their faces—the mix of admiration, quiet determination, and something sharper.
They want to be like her.
"Now," Missy says, turning to me, "let's put that theory to the test."
My stomach drops.
"Stand up, Manon."
My heartbeat slams against my ribs. The same vein Daniela noticed in my neck is probably going wild.
I rise, and Missy motions for me to step into the open space in the center of the U.
"Turn around."
I do.
Every girl in the courtyard watches me with unreadable expressions—except Lara, who's clearly amused.
The students here come from all over the world, yet every conversation I've overheard has been in English. I suddenly feel grateful for that. If I couldn't understand anyone, this place would be even more impossible to navigate.
"Here are the rules," Missy says, removing my blazer. It slides to the ground, and the cold air bites through my clothes. "No lights. No leaving this room."
I take a quick glance around.
There's a guard by the courtyard door. Another by the staircase. One at each hallway exit.
"Each trainee will receive one of these." Missy lifts two strips of gray fabric. "Tuck it into the back of your waistband. The goal is simple: steal the other girl's cloth before she takes yours."
She pauses.
"The first person to win gets to stay in this academy."
Oh, man. I take another quick scan of the room, this time building a mental map. The staircase is behind me. To the right, a long curtain, a hallway with a security guard. Another curtain, a small dent in the wall just below my waist, flashlight, curtain, door. The layout mirrors itself on the other side—minus the dent.
"We need one more trainee," Missy announces.
Lara's hand shoots into the air. Of course.
"Everyone else stays exactly where they are. Manon, your opponent will be..." Her gaze sweeps the group before settling on the petite girl beside Lara—the one who gave Yoonchae that envious glare. "Marquise."
Marquise. My brain instantly translates: Noble or lord of the borderlands.
The sharp intake of breath from the others, followed by a quiet snicker, tells me her reputation precedes her.
She rises, her blazer already discarded, and moves to my left. One glance in my direction, and I can practically hear her thought process: Not a challenge.
Well, we'll see about that.
Missy tucks a strip of gray fabric into the back of each of our pants. I glance again at the dent in the wall. Then Missy takes our hands, pulling me to her right, Marquise to her left. The guards behind us step toward the lights. I recognize one—the same guy I keep seeing everywhere.
Each guard turns off the lights. The room plunges into complete darkness. The kind of dark that steals every sense except sound and instinct.
There are no windows. No slivers of moonlight. Nothing.
From the hallways, I hear a faint knocking. I assume it's the guards returning to their posts. Then—silence.
Not a single breath, not a shuffle of movement. Just heavy, pressing quiet.
"Begin," Missy commands, releasing my hand.
My pulse leaps into my throat.
There's nothing like pitch-black uncertainty—being hunted in the dark by a probably ninja-like competitor—to make me question my life choices. And if I don't prove myself in this exercise, the entire academy will know: I'm the weak link. The amateur. The contestant not worth betting on.
I take a few careful steps, just past the U-shaped seating arrangement. I must be close to someone, because I can feel their body heat. My boots make no sound against the stone floor. But neither do Marquise's steps.
If I can just get to that light switch.
I move along the backs of the seated girls, roughly lining myself up with where I think the light switch should be. I extend my hands slightly, hoping to catch Marquise's body heat.
Nothing. Just cold air.
Here goes nothing.
I step toward the wall—and something hooks around my ankle.
I stumble forward, arms flailing, the sound of my misstep echoing through the silent room.
A laugh cuts through the darkness—sharp, amused. I'd bet anything it belongs to Lara.
Of course it's Lara.
"Way to cheat, Lara," I say, irritation creeping into my voice.
Normally, I'd let it slide, recover without a word. But I can't have Missy—or the others—thinking I tripped over my own feet. Not when every moment here is a test. Not when I'm fighting to prove that I belong to this academy.
"Who's cheating? It's not my fault you're ridiculously clumsy," Lara fires back, mimicking my American accent perfectly.
A sharp sound echoes through the room, a click. A flickering glow follows as Missy raises a flashlight to her face.
"Enough," she says, her voice cutting through the tension. "Lara, you had no place in this challenge. I specifically said to stay put. And Manon, surprises happen. Not everyone plays by the rules. Did you think this challenge was about fairness?"
The room stays silent. Even Marquise, standing beside me, holds up my stolen cloth with a knowing smirk. Not cocky—just a quiet confirmation of what she already believed.
Damn it. Not only did I lose, but I looked foolish doing it.
"Let me try again," I say.
"You lost, Manon."
"I know," I reply, forcing a small smile. "But you just told us a story about a girl who lost in order to win. So let's see if Marquise can beat me when she doesn't have Lara's help."
Marquise's eyes narrow, and I can tell she's offended I even suggested she needed an assist. "No one needs Lara's help to beat you," she says, her voice carrying a distinct Thailand accent.
The room holds its breath. All eyes shift from me to Missy, who tilts her head slightly, as if weighing my words. Finally, she gives a brief nod.
Before she can change her mind, I hurry back to my starting position.
Missy resets the cloths, and I steal a glance at Marquise. Her expression is pure ice—like she's already picturing how she's going to destroy me this time. My gut twists. Maybe I shouldn't have pushed for a rematch. She didn't hesitate in round one—she came straight for me, no second-guessing.
Missy exhales sharply, turning off the light. The room plunges back into complete darkness.
Three heartbeats.
Then—her grip on my hand releases.
This time, I run—not even bothering to quiet my footsteps.
My hands slam against the stone wall, and the room erupts with muffled laughter. They think I'm making another clumsy mistake.
Good.
I sweep my hands in frantic circles across the wall. There. My fingers brush over the small chip. I reach up, grab the flashlight, and hurl it with all my strength to the opposite side of the room.
The flashlight clatters against the floor. Gasps ripple through the crowd.
Using the moment of distraction, I yank at the heavy curtain, dragging it toward me before shoving it back with force. It sways, slicing through the air toward the hallway.
A sharp creak of leather follows—one of the guards shifting. I hit my mark.
In the middle of the confusion, I grab hold of the dent above my head, gripping it with both hands.
The whispers of the girls swirl around me, but I don't hesitate.
Then—Missy's voice cuts through the noise. "Quiet."
The whispers die instantly.
I smirk.
My fingers find the edge of the scuffed wall—my mark. And I wait.
Two seconds.
The air shifts near my hand. I don't move. Marquise is coming straight for me again. No hesitation. No playing around. If she wants something, she goes for it. No distractions. No detours.
I still can't hear her breath, which means she's keeping her movements controlled—probably with her back turned toward me. I reach forward, misjudging her height and grabbing the fabric of her fitted top just above her waist.
My fingers close around the real prize. The cloth.
I yank.
She lets out a sharp gasp, stumbling back.
Lights flare on, and the entire room blinks in the sudden glow.
Everyone is staring.
Marquise's sharp eyes lock onto mine. "Winning second is still losing," she mutters.
I grin, flipping the cloth between my fingers. "But didn't we just learn that it's the most recent win that people remember?"
Missy steps forward, arms crossed, nodding toward the cloth in my outstretched hand. "Nicely done." There's something different in her tone—less tense. Like she's just decided I might actually deserve to be here.
Marquise doesn't drop her gaze. Her voice is barely audible when she murmurs, "You can't win second if you're already out of the competition."
My smile falters.
She's driven, sharp, and dead serious. And she doesn't like me.
I get the feeling that by winning tonight... I might have just lost something more important.